She sets her pencil on top of the paper.
I scribble back: I’ll tell you later.
A grimace crosses her face, and she sniffles. I’m worried that she’s crying and look over. She gives me a huge smile. I notice her eyes. They are wide, like she has them pinned open with invisible toothpicks. She writes: so it’s the hottie TA. She sniffs again.
Maybe she’s getting a cold.
Are you sick? I write.
No, she answers.
Okay.
A slight breeze moves my hair, and I immediately know why. Cole is at our row. My heart is pounding so loud, like it wants to knock me over, drag me down, and punch me out. I know I need to stay away from him. I know he’s probably dangerous, evil. But my body doesn’t give a crap what I think. The sight of Cole, the way he moves, stands, and breathes; he makes my body ache in places I didn’t know could ache. The cotton balls in my mouth are now accompanied by sandpaper. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him. Don’t look at him, I chant over and over. But I can’t resist, and I glance at him through my lashes.
He shakes his head, glances at the paper Gina and I have been writing on, and then smiles, an enormous, beautiful, all-consuming smile. At me.
He read what we wrote. My face heats and my hands start to shake. I’m humiliated.
Gina giggles takes the stack of papers he hands her, grabs one, and passes the rest to me. I do the same, passing them to the next person.
Never in the history of syllabuses has the one in my hands been more interesting. I pretend to focus, keeping my eyes on my paper, praying my heart will slow down.
Seconds that feel like hours slip by and Gina sets the condemning paper on my desk. On it is masculine writing with a number and the words: call me!
Ms. Spears is still talking. Probably about the syllabus, but I can’t hear a word. La Traviata: Prelude to Act 1 is playing in my head, the aching opening notes matching the feeling in my heart. My lips part and I let out a noise, which causes Gina to glance at me. I shrug, mortified at the reaction I’m having to him. I’m losing all grasp on reality. Still, I can’t help myself. I watch Cole’s descending movement and am mesmerized by the way his shoulder blades move effortlessly under his shirt, the way his muscles flex when he takes a step.
Gina steals the paper and scribbles four words, meaningless when separated, but together bring my face to scalding.
You have it bad.
I take a deep breath, working to convince myself her words aren’t true. That too much time has gone by. Too much has happened. That any feelings I’m harboring are residual from when I was younger. I’ve seen the way the current Cole behaves, and there is nothing about him to like. Definitely not love.
Except his smile.
And his eyes.
And the way he moves, like a predator stalking its prey. Lithe. Liquid. An image of the two of us kissing enters my head and my body warms.
I shake my head and try to glare.
Gina covers her mouth with a hand, stifling a laugh.
I squeeze my thighs together, forcing myself to listen to Ms. Spears and her overdramatic ruminations.
When class is over, I follow Gina out. I have Biology next. First, I need to head back to my room and get my book.
“Who is he?” Gina asks when we’re outside.
I ignore her, focusing on the landscape surrounding us: the pine trees and the wild daisies, the rose bushes and the crabapple trees. In the far distance are the Rocky Mountains. The grass on campus is lush and green. With Wyoming’s harsh winters, it won’t last much longer. I sigh and inhale a deep breath. The air is crisp.
“Rosie?” she says, smacking my arm.
“What?” I respond automatically, then sigh heavily. I’ve got to tell her something. Not that Cole was my first crush, or the first and only person I dreamed of marrying. I won’t tell her how his father killed my parents or that he might hurt me. I can’t tell her any of that. Instead I say, “He’s some guy from the party Friday night.”
“Uh-huh. I need details. You act like you’re ready to have his babies.” Gina is half running to keep up with me and still be able to see my face.
“No, I’m not,” I say, stomping toward Irvine Hall.
“Um, yeah.” Gina laughs. “He’s cute, and you’re smitten. Is he good in bed? Is that why you left that night? You two hooked up?”
“Stop,” I tell her, picking up my pace.
I don’t want to talk about this. It infuriates me that I don’t have more sense, more control over my reaction to him. A person can change a lot in seven years. I’ve changed. The last time he saw me I’d been a happy, altruistic, glass-half-full kind of girl.
Not anymore.
Plus, he doesn’t remember me.
His number on that piece of paper is there for one reason and one reason only. He wants to hook up. But I’m not that kind of girl.
I take the elevator up to the tenth floor. Gina follows. I cross my arms and turn away.
She doesn’t say anything until we’re in our room.
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you.” She sits on her bed, and I finally take the time to really look at her. Not too many days ago she was a ball of broken curled on her bed, hugging a teddy bear to death. Her eyes are still kind of wild, and she’s jittery. I’m guessing too much coffee.
“Never mind.” I pick up my biology book, a spiral notebook, and another pencil. “I’ve got biology. What about you?”
She flips on her stereo, blaring it loud, and I get the feeling she’s mad.
“Gina?” I touch her on the arm.
She jumps, like I’ve physically hurt her. I quickly tuck my hands behind my back.
She rubs her nose with a finger, sniffles. “I don’t have another class until one o’clock.” She picks up her purse and goes to the door. “I’ve got to pee. Want to meet at Perky’s for lunch?”
“Sure,” I reply, but she’s already gone.
8
Less Time to Pine
Rosie
It’s been a week since I’ve seen Cole, and I’m glad.
So glad.
Not! My insides ache for him.
I search for him, too. Especially in the cafeteria, and at English. He’s the TA of Ms. Spears’ class. Doesn’t that mean he’s required to be there? He isn’t around, though. I can’t help but wonder why. Is he okay? Is he avoiding me?
I’ve been keeping busy. Going to my classes, practicing piano, and doing homework. Professor Jenkins, my music teacher, loved the piece I played for him. Said I have a real future—whatever that means—and asked me to play a duet for the end of year Winter Gala. I agreed, of course. Playing the duet will guarantee me a full ride scholarship for the next year. On Monday I’m supposed to meet my partner so we can choose our song and begin practicing together. The Professor didn’t give me a name. He was mysterious about it or maybe he was vague because he isn’t sure who my partner will be yet.
The prospect of doing something musical calms my nerves. It means less time to spend thinking about Cole. Less time to pine for the remnant of a guy I fell for seven years ago.
I hope.
Because it seems no matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop thinking about him.
The paper he wrote his phone number on is folded small and stuffed in my back pocket. It feels like a fifty-pound weight. Every time I move, I feel it. I keep pulling it out, studying it, deliberating.
In the coffee shop.
On a bench in the Mall.
In my room after Gina is asleep.
When I get out of the shower.
I want to throw it away. Toss it, and every thought of Cole, right in the trash. I manage to do it once. Five minutes later, I pulled it out.
“Why don’t you burn it?” Gina asks when she walks into our room and catches me staring at it again. She pulls a lighter from her pocket and flicks it on. “Go on, set the sucker on fire.”
Like a moth I move toward the flam
e, holding the paper out. It’s a good idea. If I torch it, the unpleasant thing will be gone, and I can’t gawk anymore, even if I want to.
The heat licks my fingers and catches the edge of the paper on fire. But I can’t go through with it. I blow it out.
Smoke caresses the air, twirls it in its arms, and all I can think about is Cole.
“Dang it,” I say, grabbing my music.
“You can run but you can’t hide,” she laughs, sniffs.
I glare. “I can try,” I say, heading to the door. Before I open it, I ask, “Are you sick?”
Her nose has been runny for days. Since the first day of school. I’m concerned.
Gina shakes her head, clears her throat. “Maybe a cold or allergies. All the freakin’ tumbleweeds are getting to my sinuses.” She grabs a tissue and wipes her nose.
“What about the other day? We still haven’t talked about it. Is everything okay?”
She waves me off, but I catch a glimmer of sadness cross her face. “I’m good. Better than good actually, and Friday night we party again.”
“I’m not—”
“No excuses. I’m going to give you a makeover.”
I nod and push my lips into a smile. “Sounds fun.” It doesn’t sound fun. I’m worried about her idea of a makeover. But I get the feeling she needs something to look forward to.
I close the door and walk to the elevators. Several other students enter as well.
When the doors are closed a girl with straight black hair asks, “What’s burning?”
She’s searching the elevator for the culprit. I’m guessing she smells the burnt edges of the paper tucked away in my pocket. I keep my eyes down, staring at all the shoes. Converse equals easygoing. Docs are the equivalent of rebel. High, strappy heels? She’s trying way too hard.
I look up. Her effort seems to be working. The guys take turns ogling her. I’m a phantom, a ghost loitering in the back. No biggie. I prefer it that way. Really, I do.
A phone vibrates, and one of the guys pulls his cell out of his pocket. His fingers click across the screen. He’s texting.
That’s another thing. I don’t have a cell. My aunt and uncle don’t believe in them, and I can’t afford one on my own. Gina already told me I could use hers to call Cole, but I turned her down. I could also use the phone in the commons area. Neither option sounds appealing, and I’m glad.
Really.
I’m truly happy about my choices.
I don’t want to talk to Cole. I won’t call him. Why should I be the one to instigate a conversation when he doesn’t even remember who I am?
If he wants to talk, he can make the effort.
Please don’t find me. Please don’t find me.
Please find me.
* * *
Cole
“You’re an idiot. How are you my son?”
He backhands me across the face. Shoves me into the counter. Pain explodes behind my eyes making them water. And I see light like fireworks go off inside my head.
It feels like my jaw has been broken, but it probably isn’t. Broken bones would mean a trip to the hospital and dad wouldn’t want that.
I don’t say anything. There’s no point when he gets like this.
“Are you deaf?” He punches me between the shoulder blades, and my cheek slams into the cupboard.
More painful fireworks behind my watering eyes. Throbbing pulses like an extra heartbeat in the center of my back, but I stay quiet.
“You have one job. One job, Cole.” He picks up the pot of burnt spaghetti and throws it at me. “Can’t even cook spaghetti. Pathetic. Your mother is rolling over in her grave. Embarrassed she gave birth to someone so dumb.”
The hot pan strikes my back, and a searing agony makes me yell out against my will. Red sauce is everywhere. I turn around, watch him pour himself a shot—his fourth, or eighth, or twelfth—and gulp it down. “Make me something I can eat.” He takes the vodka bottle and the shot glass and leaves the kitchen.
It takes me more than an hour to get all the red sauce, water, and noodles wiped up. My back feels like it’s on fire. I do my best to ignore it. When I’m finished, I make my dad a ham and cheese sandwich and set it on the table. If things have gone the way they normally do, he’ll be passed out on the couch.
Sure enough, he’s asleep, the bottle drooping in one hand, empty. I cover him with a blanket and go to my room.
I carefully take off my shirt. I turn toward the mirror over my dresser, trying to see the damage on my back. It’s angry red. Red sauce is in my hair, on my back and jeans, but I don’t care. Now that I’m alone I let the tears fall. Exhausted, I fall face first onto my bed and am almost asleep when there’s a light tapping on my window, and it slides open.
Rosie crawls through and flips on the lamp next to my bed. I hear her gasp.
“Is he asleep?” she asks. No need to specify. We both know who she’s referring to.
I nod, sniffle, and turn so I can see her face.
She strokes my forehead where I’m sure there’s a bruise from its collision course with the cupboard. “Be right back.”
I don’t say anything. Just let the tears fall. When she comes back through my window, she’s carrying her first aid kit. If I weren’t in so much pain, I’d tease her about it.
“How long ago did this happen?” She sits on the bed next to me.
I shrug. Look at the clock. “Maybe three hours.”
She sighs. “In that case, I’m going to apply some aloe ointment.”
She unscrews the lid on a tube and squeezes clear stuff onto her fingers.
“It doesn’t look like it’s blistered. Only a little red. But this still might hurt. I’m sorry.” With fingers light as feathers, she spreads the cooling liquid over the burn. It does hurt, but it’s nothing I can’t handle.
“Thanks, Rosie.”
She presses a water bottle against my shoulder. “You should take these.”
I face her. Take the water and two pills from her hand. After they go down, I hand the water back.
“No, drink it all. You need it.”
I obey and chug every last drop.
“Good.” She smiles.
I turn onto my side and she covers me to my waist with my sheet. “Will you be alright?”
I nod. “Sure.”
She touches the lump on my forehead. “Too bad your hair isn’t longer. You could cover this up.”
“I’m a guy. Bruises are part of growing up,” I say, repeating my dad’s words.
“See you tomorrow.”
“Night, Freckles.”
She grunts something indiscernible as she climbs out the window and closes it.
“Rosie,” I whisper, wiping the steam from the mirror over the sink. I gently bang my forehead against the glass, stare at my reflection. “Maybe she can’t stand the sight of you. You’re part of her past, a past that involves the death of her parents.”
Or maybe she doesn’t want a guy she knows is broken. More likely she thinks you’re a jerk for pretending you don’t know her!
I want to be different, go back and change the way I acted, tell her I’m sorry. There’s an Alpha frat party tonight. I’m obligated to go. It’s black tie. I get dressed, hoping against hope I’ll see her there.
9
Hottie Ta
Rosie
“You look hot!” Gina squeals as she applies the last of my mascara.
I hop off the chair and check my reflection. She’s lined my eyes in smoky grey liner. A darker shade of gray is on my lids, and she’s put on several coats of mascara. On my lips and cheeks, she put light pink lip-gloss and a touch of blush.
She’s also fixed my hair. Curled it with a thick curling iron and the end result is soft, romantic, the tendrils of my brown hair frame my face.
I wonder if Cole will like it, I think, and then mentally kick myself.
“Wow, Gina.” I touch one of the curls.
“Yeah, I know. The guys are going trip over t
hemselves to get your digits.” She pushes me back in the chair. “Especially one in particular.” She sniffles. Still has a cold or allergies, it seems. “I got the scoop for you, by the way.”
I turn to face her. “The scoop?”
“Yeah, the scoop about Hottie TA.” She spritzes some of my curls with hair spray.
I clear my throat. “And?”
I don’t want to give anything away. He doesn’t seem to know me, so I’m going to pretend I don’t know anything about him. Like the fact that he used to sleep with a nightlight. Or that he would tickle my back so, so gently while we listened to music. His favorite band was The Cure, and he said he wanted to be a poet when he grew up.
Once he wrote me a poem. My aunt threw it away, but I have it memorized.
You make me laugh.
I’m torn in half.
When I’m with you I feel whole.
I’ll never let you go.
That’s the Cole I remember. Sweet. Kind. Caring.
College Cole doesn’t even see real, but I know it’s him, a version of him I don’t understand, but still, it’s him. Plus, apparently, he has no idea who I am.
“Earth to Rosie. Come in, Rosie.” Gina snaps her fingers in front of my face.
“Oh, sorry,” I say, and smile. “Thanks again for fixing me up. I love the dress, though the shoes make me wobbly.”
She sniffles. “You’re welcome.” She shrugs. “Now do you want the scoop or not?”
“Sure,” I say, standing. Following Gina to the door.
It’s ten-thirty at night. The perfect time to get the party started, according to Gina. I have to admit I’m excited about going to another party.
“His name is Cole Morrison,” she begins.
That I already know.
“He’s a sophomore, and apparently our English teacher, Witchy Spears thinks he’s a genius.”
I didn’t know that. Maybe he still writes poetry.
Her eyes meet mine. “He’s kind of… how can I say this without harming your sensibilities.” She raises an eyebrow. “Loose with the women,” she finally finishes.” She snickers. “He might be more than you can handle.”
Kissed by a Rose: A Dead Roses Novel Page 5